Uncertain Harvest
by ParadoxPortal
Summary: NWN2 OC. A prologue to my story, The Quelling Verse. For Piper, my PC, this is her beginning, her background, and represents everything she will come to lose once she leaves West Harbor. The Harvest Fair Chapters.
1. Chapter 1: Swamped

_**A/N**__: This is my first fanfiction so take that into consideration. :D_

_**Update 11/30/07**__: Made some minor wording edits. :)_

**Swamped**

Piper blinked away the film of sleep. Sounds of merry fair preparations were drifting through the open window and she pressed her face into her pillow, cursing herself for not having the foresight to lash it shut the night before. The only morning worth anything was one of bright, radiant sunshine, _not _the blue-gray of twilight.

Someone was singing. A gentle baritone hailed the Morninglord over the ruckus of livestock, chatter, and the hollow knocking of tent poles. Piper managed to shuffle groggily over to her window. Wiping away her mussed hair and leaning over the sill, she recognized Brother Merring across the stream in his robes of gold and burnt crimson. He, along with Georg and a good number of the militiamen, were assembling the various tents and erecting the challenge fences. She thought she could spot Bevil among them.

Waking with the roosters for everyone else's sake, bless them. She yawned, shivering at the slight breath of wind that played around her bare collar bone.

"If you insist on leaning in such a way, child, then see to it that you are well-covered." Piper straightened her back and fetched her woolen shawl from the dresser top, wrapping it about herself.

"Well, good morning, Father." She smiled down on Daeghun. He nodded and began scouring the empty water trough below. "Will you be staying for the Fair today?"

Daeghun didn't look up from his work, but there was the barest of pauses. "Of course. Galen wants my furs as usual." Then he leveled a glance at her. "The peat logs are running thin, and Glorwen has yet to be fed or watered." He continued scrubbing. "But I'm sure you remembered."

"You needn't remind me." She chirped and closed the window, drawing the curtains of her windows.

Piper sighed to herself. Five days gone and all he afforded her in his return was a stiff reprimand in posture and responsibility. She shrugged the twinge of disappointment out of her shoulders.

_The elf is an island unto himself._

She slipped out of her chemise and donned a dark beige tunic and a pair of earthen breeches. By the time she strapped the many belts and straps on her worn leathers, and stepped into her mud boots, the sun's crown had finally peaked over the horizon.

She brushed her hair and wrapped a string of twine around it in a messy knot. It was going to be a _very_ warm day. A very _active_ day. And it just reeked of injustice if a few stray hairs blocked her view of a defeated Mossfeld. Save perhaps Webb. Over the past few years, the youngest Mossfeld had taken an almost pleasant turn towards her, much to Amie and Bevil's amusement. He just followed his brothers out of the boredom only Harbormen suffered from.

Piper ushered about the house for a good while with her parchment-book and quill, taking stock of all food stuffs, clothing, and weapon miscellaneous; anything that Galen could replenish, repair, or purchase. She tsked at all the clutter that had built up over the last year, then muttered to herself bemusedly when she realized most, if not all of it, was hers. Harbormen also suffered from a notorious packrat syndrome, it seemed...or maybe that was just Piper.

She packed all of it in a number of oilskin packs from Daeghun's supply closet, and began loading them on the mulecart in the front yard. She had been correct. By now, it couldn't be later than nine in the morning, and yet already Piper's brow felt moist. She heard a clinking from the back of the house; most likely Daeghun tampering with the water pump. It had acted fickle for the past few weeks.

Piper crossed the lawn, eying the onion field with contempt. Her back still ached from last evening, when Daeghun had returned from his fur-gathering and then suggested they weed through the plants and discard all the lost causes. She figured only a third of them had survived the rotten season, and she doubted the peas would fare any better the coming winter.

And the terrible yield didn't amount to equally terrible weather, no, and West Harbor never wanted for water or rich soil; it possessed both by the plenty. Piper squished her boot into the peat moss, confirming the fact. No, something odd was going on here, she knew. But guesses in the village remained few and solutions nonexistent.

An impatient snort came from the stable.

Piper grinned, giving a shout. "Yes, yes, I know." She fetched the bridle and a bucket of sweet feed that she had mixed the day before last, un-notching the door. She tried to slip the bridle over the mule's ears, but the animal jerked her head backwards. Piper laughed. "No need to worry, Wen. No bit in this one." She dangled it in front of the mule's muzzle so she could take a few wary nibbles at it, then she huffed through her nose, satisfied. "See? Nothing to fuss over." Piper soothed as she fastened the straps about Wen's face.

She guided her from the stable, and Wen immediately ducked her head into the sweet feed, chomping and gnashing. Piper brushed her golden coat as she fed, noticing the thinning of the hair around her rump and neck.

"Just how old are you I wonder, girl?" Glorwen had occupied the stable, grazed on the grass, and drank from the stream for as long as Piper could remember. And from how hesitant Daeghun was to make contact with the animal, she assumed that the mule had belonged to his late wife. Piper ran the stiff bristles through Wen's flaxen mane while she cleaned her teeth with her wide tongue.

"So lady-like." Piper teased. Wen huffed through her nose again, but followed when she led her to the refilled water trough. She could drink her fill while Piper harvested the peat logs.

West Harbor basically rested in a giant depression of peat moss and so, unlike many of the large cities, peat fires took predominance to those made from old-fashioned wood. Piper couldn't recall ever seeing anyone chop down a tree for firewood in her entire twenty-four years. Daeghun always became stony and rigid at the very _idea_ of it, almost echoing the attitudes of the few druids she had met; very strange behavior for a ranger, for a wood elf who lived off the natural world. But then, his behavior was strange by many standards.

Piper shook her head, conjuring up a light-some melody as she shoveled peat into block molders that were spread back-to-back over the wooden picnic table. Perhaps it was the excitement of the day, or the heat, but a fresh tune eluded her.

Not one for dissuasion, she shrugged, and ran the words of Milil's creed through her mind instead. It always fought off the monotony brought on by farm work.

_Life is a song: Strive always to make it more beautiful. Destroy no music nor instrument, nor stop a singer before the tune is done. Listen to the world around as well as filling it with your own sound. One singer's music is another's noise, and musicianship always. Sing to Milil everyday. Music is the most precious thing folks can create—so encourage its training, use, and preservation at all times and in all possible ways. Awaken a love of song in all folks you can, and offer its performance freely around campfire or on the trail. Cease not in your own seeking for new tunes, new techniques, and new instruments to master._

Piper mulled over the words, again and again, until every mold set was filled with peat. As contained as it was, it still made for a squishy mess. A beaming sun in the thick of a warm autumn…and the sod was holding more water than a dwarven woman with child.

She snickered to herself, when suddenly a slippery, wet something licked her hand and she nearly fell over in the attempt to grab Daeghun's skinning knife from the table.

She whirled around, only to find a coyote gazing rigidly at her. Piper stabbed the picnic table in relieved agitation.

"_Gods_, Rana! Don't do that!" She frowned at him, but he only twitched his nose in her general direction, brown lupine eyes staring. He lowered his head and tail, lolling his tongue out slightly. Piper eased forward and patted him between his tawny ears. His eyes drifted closed. Then, without a _yip_ or _yap_ or whatever sound it was coyotes made, he padded off into the surrounding brush, probably to find a meal or sleeping burrow between the trees.

Once Piper finally regained the ability to smile, she swiped a few ginger hairs out of her face; Rana had never approached her so openly before. Usually, he skirted the trees and shrubbery, sticking his head out for a canine acknowledgment or two before disappearing for several days. Just like Daeghun. She still marveled that he and the coyote shared the companion bond, what with their loner ways and stoic mannerisms.

Glorwen brayed near her ear; she had taken it upon herself to canter over from the trough.

"Well, Wen? What do you say to a little trot over to the Fairway, hmm?" The mule tossed her head. Piper fastened her harness to the cart poles. "You just wait there and enjoy the scenery for a bit."

She entered the farmhouse. "Father?"

"Yes?" Daeghun's monotone carried a hint of irritation. Most likely because she had called him loud enough to rouse even his ancestors in Evermeet. He was busy mending wools in front of the sitting room fire.

"Wen is harnessed and the cart loaded. All I need are your furs."

Daeghun nodded, satisfied, hands making deft repairs. "Very good. I took the liberty of wrapping them in a burlap cloth for you to carry. They are atop the foyer chest." Piper backed a couple of steps into the foyer and picked up the twined cloth. The bundle was uncharacteristically thin this year. She could, for the first time in memory, wrap the length of her arms around it without risking injury.

"Galen and I spoke last season, and he agreed to bring a Duskwood bow for trade this year." Piper wondered at this; Daeghun owned a handful of bows already and one full wall of the supply closet was flush with them, hanging on platform hooks. A sign of calculated caution and preparation for…what exactly? Lizardlings? Ham-handed bandits? An invasion of fireflies, perhaps?

"Alright, I'm on my way." She withheld a chuckle, but then paused, an irksome question on the tip of her tongue.

Daeghun stroked his mouth with a forefinger, peering up at her with keen green eyes, waiting with inhuman patience.

Piper sighed. "Sorry to pick at you but…what _is_ happening to West Harbor? If the rot continues, all the crops will become useless."

"This past season has been a hard one—for both tilled fields and wildlands. But there are always creatures of the Mere that we may use for food, if the situation proves dire." He said, calm and measured.

"Yes, but whatever is affecting the crops is also affecting the wilds." She gripped the bundle tighter, frowning in thought. "The nightbirds are quiet as of late, and I can't remember the last time I saw a rabbit in the thickets or a flock of geese flying overhead...if the crops _and_ animals die, what then? I hardly think any large city or village would even marshal aide to us."

Daeghun had steeped his fingers, and now considered her with some impatience. "You seek comfort and answers that I cannot give. Besides, you leave within a tenday. The troubles of the Mere need not trouble you for much longer."

She had half a mind to be touched by the slight bitterness in his tone.

Piper smiled, though it felt stiff and hard on her face. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't fuss on a Fair day. The sun rides high and bright, and here I am speaking of _rot_ of all things. I'll leave you then." And so she turned on her heel and marched out the door, across the lawn, plopping the furs on the cart a little harder than she had intended. Glorwen snorted. Piper coiled the bridle's reins about her right hand, clucking her tongue to coax Wen into movement.

_As always, you waste your breath, bard._


	2. Chapter 2: Currency Run

_**A/N**__: I'd like to mention that I do NOT own Milil's dogma from Chapter One. And I'm sure Wikipedia doesn't either. _

**Currency Run**

Even as old as she was, Glorwen's strides quickened in the invigorating air. It really was a fine day. The sky was almost silver in its brightness, with only an occasional ribbon of blue. The goldcrowns and bog violets stood out against the green beautifully this year.

Piper inhaled the breeze; the aroma of roasting meats and cooking vegetables assaulted her nostrils in earnest now as she neared the beam bridge, where Amie and Bevil had their booted feet dangling over the edge.

Amie's frustrated voice caught on the wind. "That is _not_ what I'm saying. The point is you're not _trying_ to understand." Bevil was leaning back on his palms, the auburn hair at the back of his head ruffled and sticking out at odd angles where he'd scratched it; proof that he was either confused, nervous, or genuinely irritated. Or perhaps a bit of all three.

"I still say spell-casting is much more complicated than holding a sword properly," Bevil insisted, shrugging.

"If this is another spell versus the sword argument, I may just find Wyl and _let_ him club me over the head." Piper braced her hand on Glorwen's muzzle to steady her to a halt, gazing down on them with mock-disdain. Bevil hopped to his feet, hauling Amie up by her hands, both grinning like fools. Fair weather always had funny effects on people. Unless…

"Have the two of you already drained a few mugs without me?" She teased.

Amie greeted Glorwen with a pat. "Of course not. We waited on the dutiful daughter as usual." She crinkled her nose in a simpering smile.

Piper stuck her tongue out at her.

"Here, Piper, I'll take that." Bevil grasped Glorwen's reins.

"Thanks, cowlick." His palm swiped self-consciously over his head, attempting to flatten his hair. Piper chuckled. "Here, bend down a stretch, I'll get it." She tamed the spot with her fingers. "There. Now, I have to get this cart to Galen as soon as possible. Sooner I deal with him, the sooner we win a cup."

As the three of them crossed the bridge, Amie entwined her arm with Piper's and leaned towards her, speaking in that conspiratorial way that only kindred arcane spirits could fully appreciate. "By the way, I took your advice and convinced Tarmas to teach me a few new spells." Her lips curved in an almost impish grin. "_And_ I dug up a couple more from his spellbooks when he wasn't looking."

Piper beamed. "Well, it's his own fault, the sourpuss. Filling your, not to mention _my_, head with all those mage stories. And he expects his most promising apprentice to _mind her cantrips_ of all things."

The three weaved their way through the swarm of fairgoers, Bevil calling out 'watch the wagon' every few seconds. The burgeoning crowd doubled, maybe even tripled the usual, milling about the Fairway in chattering knots from one food tent to the next. Piper wondered absently if the dramatic increase in visitors had something to do with the meager harvest.

_So. The city folk are paying their last respects to the struggling little Mere village? How thoughtful._

A man dressed head to foot in vibrant green bumped into Piper, apologized, and then proceeded to inquire if she thought his pantaloons clashed with his doublet. Bevil muttered something derogatory about 'dapper dans' under his breath as he curbed Glorwen in the opposite direction.

Vendors beckoned from their tent stalls, wafting the fumes of whatever they had concocted towards the passers-by. Baked apples, fenberry pies, hog's liver pudding, ginger bread, lemon tarts, stewed sparrows, and Retta's green bean casserole; there were words on the lips of a few city people that the Harbormen had pulled all the stops and outdone themselves.

"Why don't I drop by Georg and get us registered while you two deal with the merchant?" Amie suggested.

Piper cocked a brow. "Avoiding something are we? Wouldn't have anything to do with Galen's fetching new bodyguards, now would it?" She gestured towards the twin sellswords ahead. Amie's expression soured.

"It's not because of _them_. It's because of _them_." She pointed to a throng of women, both young and old, who were gathered around Galen's tent. They appeared very interested in the young bodyguards, giggling and whispering behind cupped hands. "Ugh. Birdbrains, all of them. I'll be back." Piper and Bevil just smiled at her retreating back, then turned to each other and shrugged.

Galen's broad, sun-lined face smiled brusquely. "Ah, a Starling lad, hello there." Bevil nodded. "And, why, you're Daeghun's ward, isn't that right? Ah, Pip?"

Piper laughed. "Well, that's one of the better names I've been given. Better than PipeSqueak or Piper the Gutter Sniper, I suppose." A blank expression covered his face. She cleared her throat instead and motioned to the cart laden with goods. The merchant's smile turned to a smug grin.

"Good, good. Just bring them inside, if you will."

She and Bevil spent a while hefting all the goods and negotiating price in Galen's blue and gold striped tent, which smelled oddly of cheese. His hard-nosed bargaining was as shrewd as ever. Perhaps shrewder with the knowledge of Piper's connection with Daeghun, for he was among the most prosperous of the villagers. If she had been inclined, she would have pointed out that Daeghun was also a minimalist of the worst sort and did not give a fig about gold. But what would a merchant with a silk-lined tunic and golden rings adorning every finger understand of such things?

Still, the clutter earned a nice sum of money, a little over two hundred gold. She used it to replenish Daeghun's salt and spice canister, and to purchase a set of modest metal cookware. Daeghun would frown on the latter of course, so if push came to shove, Piper could gift the set to Retta as a farewell present. Retta never lacked in gratitude, what with seven children to mind, not to mention Bevil whom oftentimes ate as much as the livestock.

The furs, on the other hand, only earned eight gold in the trade with the duskwood bow. But Daeghun would be pleased. Piper didn't fancy herself a connoisseur of bowery but the craftsmanship _was_ exquisite, the bowstring tension just perfect; it fit comfortably underneath the cart's burlap blanket.

Amie approached the wagon, rolling her eyes at the peal of giggles that came from beside the tent.

"Oh, Piper, don't forget. We need some coin from Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate."

"Ah, making a trip?" Galen asked, entering the sunlight again. He was apparently attuned to the mention of anything that might require his goods.

Piper nodded enthusiastically. "Mmhmm. Just me and Amie here. Down to Waterdeep to walk the halls of New Olamn, across The Trade Way, wrapping around into Baldur's Gate for a wine or two at the Three Old Kegs, then down The Coast Way to browse the libraries of Candlekeep for a while, then through the Cloud Peaks and over to Athkatla to visit Arbalest's House and hear the Bellows of Milil played out into the harbor."

Galen bowed his head, eyebrows raised and mouth pressed tight in appreciation. "Ambitious. It would be wise to hire a fighter or two for that kind of journey." He passed his eyes over the twin sellswords, both of them giving him a look of identical surliness, then turned to Bevil. "Or maybe your brawny friend here could get the job done." Bevil shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh, we've tried persuading him, but there's nothing for it." Amie patted him on the arm.

"He's a homegrown family man through and through." Piper smiled at him; he did not return it. "But yes, we need some foreign coin if you have any."

Galen stroked his grizzly chin. "Hmm, well you can always exchange coin in the village, city, or city-state where you travel. But the more popular the place, the more congested and irritating the waiting process can be. And, you never know, there might be metal shortages or minting complications at any given time." He smirked. "A merchant always has exotics on hand. Never know what manner of customers the road will bring. So yes, yes. I will trade you some Waterdhavian and Balduran currency for their worth in gold pieces."

Amie and Piper gathered around a money pouch with Galen, calculating the values of the coins and even naming a few of them. They left him with well wishes and found Bevil stroking Glorwen's neck with a frown.

Piper grabbed her reins and steered Glorwen to the animal paddock, tethering her to one of the available posts. She reached into the cart for the duskwood bow.

"Oh, Bevil," she chided, but gently, "I wish you would stop your sulking."

"Yeah. Why don't you quit being a prat and just _come with us_?" Amie shook him by the elbow.

Bevil rubbed the back of his head, brilliant blue eyes dark with uncertainty and a fair bit of worry. "I...I _can't_. You know that. The both of you. I've got Mother and the little ones to think of. You two on the other hand are, you know...fancy-free."

Piper chortled. "That's _one_ spin of it. I suppose 'fancy-free' and 'orphaned' are alike in meaning nowadays." When Bevil opened his mouth to apologize, she interrupted. "_But_...you're right of course. And I wouldn't ask you away from your family during a rot." She smiled. "They are my family as well."

He gave a quiet grin, and was satisfied.

"Speaking of family," Piper lifted the duskwood bow, "I have someone who's_ not_ a member of mine to appease."


	3. Chapter 3: Of Bolts and Feathers

_**A/N**__: I really enjoyed writing Nanny Driscol, an original character. I didn't intend to write her, but she just kind of…popped out, somewhat how she does in the actual story. :D I'm delving into toolset territory here, and yes, the dialogue from the game is finally cropping up. Hopefully, it doesn't come off as too tiring. Enjoy. )_

_**Extra Note**_: Besides these first five prologue chapters, the rest of The Quelling Verse will not be this tight in chronology. I've decided that these chapters are mainly for background and to show the reader just what it is Piper will lose (her 'family', home, everything…)

**_Update 12/04/07_**: This chapter is horrible. I need to thin out some of the denser game dialogue.

**Of Bolts and Feathers**

Daeghun turned to the sound of her voice.

"I have the Duskwood bow for you."

"Ah," he grasped it in his hands. An expert emerald gaze swept the length of the weapon. "Galen told me that the folk of Ember were skilled bowyers, but I see that he understated the case." He examined the curved belly and taut bowstring. "This is a fine bow, a _fine_ one...made by one who loves his craft...shaped by a gentle hand. The spirit of the tree still dwells within..."

"Yes, it's beautiful," Piper whispered, as he traced a lean hand over the wood. A soft nostalgia touched his eyes.

He paused. "You may keep whatever profits made, for your journey."

"I fear that eight gold can only go so far, but thank you." She smiled gently as he harnessed the bow on his back. "Also, there are some salts, spices and such in the mulecart that I thought you might need." He nodded in thanks.

"You came for the archery competition as well, did you not?" He inquired, popping open the barrel standing next to him. "Choose a crossbow then." Piper reached into the moldy old barrel, noting that it had probably been used for the last several years or so. She avoided contact with the moss-lined sides.

"Hm, no alternatives this year?" She fingered the bridle of a crossbow.

Daeghun pursed his lips; his disdain for the crossbow had become legendary ever since he informed the Council of it many years ago, filing a petition to allow not only crossbows, but shurikens, darts, throwing axes, shortbows, longbows, and spears. Under his deadpan argument that variety fostered growth and better survival, even in a simple swamp village, the Council had swayed in his favor; the archery competition became the Missile Match. But gradually, the villagers lost their enthusiasm with weapon after weapon, until only four remained: the light and heavy crossbows, shortbows, and longbows. So the sight of only one barrel full of standard, light crossbows caused Piper's eyebrows to rise.

"Unfortunately, no." He stroked the purse out of his lips. "The past year's funds would not allow it. The crossbow is popular and cheap to come by, so the Council had little choice." Daeghun drummed his fingers on the barrel. "I know you favor the shortbow, but there is nothing can be done."

Compared to the shortbow, the crossbow demanded less skill and training, a characteristic she knew Daeghun frowned upon.

Piper tucked a score of bolts into one of her leather pouches, feeling somewhat deflated at the weapon choice. She had been increasing her practice with the shortbow, occasionally hunting what few nightbirds and muskrats remained and now she was denied a chance to show her progress.

_Still..._

She thunked a few bolts into the practice target.

…_who am I to complain?_

Then a few more.

"Ten shots and ten targets, remember that." Daeghun's voice drifted over to her. She walked to the archery fencing, where Amie and Bevil sat in the grass, their backs against the wooden posts. Bevil eyed the crossbow.

"Well...that should make it easier."

Piper shrugged. "You know what Georg says. As long as you know how to aim, and brace yourself against the backward thrust, it's easy as pie." She grinned, arching a brow. "Unless you'd like a go instead?"

Bevil almost blanched. He always became extremely nervous during the Fair, and couldn't be trusted to do much else except swing a club at a Mossfeld's head, if that. "Eh. No thanks. Not much finesse in these babies." He flexed the leather covering his broad arms until Amie laughed into her hands.

Piper sniggered. "Keep that flexing quiet, sir." She held the crossbow's base aloft on her shoulder, squinting one eye as she aimed. Ten glass bottles stood scattered on old crates, positioned in different heights and locations as usual; some tall and thin, others squat and stout.

The invested practice with the shortbow apparently paid off; ten times the tinkle of broken glass showered the crates, and the bottles rested in shattered piles on top of them. Piper blinked.

"Excellent, Piper!" Amie applauded like a delirious jester, while Bevil hauled himself off the green to clap her on the shoulder.

"Nicely done. I _told_ you you'd make it in the militia, musician or not."

Piper felt a delirious, jittery grin cover her face, and she wedged the crossbow in the crook of her arm. "Nah. I much prefer Georg spouting some fiction to him bellowing marching orders in my face. Besides, if a lizardman rushes up to me, I can just blast him into the ground with a choice spell and run away if I have to. Leave all the killin's to the cavemen." She winked and quirked his nose between her fingers.

"By 'run away' I hope you mean 'stand your ground and fight as you should'." Bevil crossed his arms, a stern expression on his face.

"Here we go." Amie sighed, eyes rolling skyward.

Piper opened her mouth for retort, then closed it. Instead, she walked up to Bevil and stood shoulder to shoulder (or head to shoulder, rather) with him. She smiled up at him. "Look at me, Bevil. Do I look like a fortress of muscle to you?" He shook his head. "And you agree that it would be suicide if I were to face a horde of lizardmen head on?" He nodded furiously with a small smile. She nudged him with her elbow. "Well, you don't have to agree _that_ fast."

"That was very well done." Daeghun's sober appraisal jolted the three out of their conversation. Daeghun was testing arrows with the new bow, tweaking the string for imperfections or weak points. He leveled his gaze at her, eyes flicking impatiently between Amie and Bevil. His voice lilted ever so slightly in...pride was it? "I have rarely seen such a fine performance so early in the day. You have learned a marksman's instinct from your training." His tone lowered a bit. "Though a crossbow is fit for any to use, your winning deserves merit. I will inform Georg of your performance."

"Thank you...no other competitors today, Father?" Piper stored the crossbow back in the barrel, popping it shut.

Daeghun lowered his head in relief. "No. For that I am thankful. Pitney insisted on tasting each bottle between practices, convinced that Lazlo had hidden some liquor in them, and broke a few in the process." The other three laughed, but he obviously thought it was less than humorous, for he continued after a beat. "Unfortunately, I must remain here until day's end...awaiting those who wish to shoot for _fun_." He shook his head as he rubbed a spot on the bow with his thumb. He didn't meet Piper's eyes again, but his tone was softer this time. "Go on now, child. There is still more of the Fair to see."

The three merged into the Fairway again, and Piper sensed their eyes boring into the back of her skull. They always exhibited this aggravating curiosity when she and Daeghun spoke, like two elderly busybodies. The only consolation for Piper was that they did it out of friendship and concern. A sight better than the blatant intrusiveness of, say, Wyl or one of the village biddies.

Speaking of which, Nanny Driscol suddenly shuffled through the crowd and took hold of her elbow, jerking her down to eye level.

"Fancy a go at the Fair, eh Piper?" She basically shouted the words; the poor dear had declined in hearing the past several years. "You young fillies put a twitch in my eye, fighting with the men folk and nursing spirits like city wretches. I put a goodly effort in ya when ya were skittering about in your swaddling clothes, while that leprechaun of a 'father' tramped about in the underbrush. And here ya be standing, off to hurl a club at a man instead of marrying one."

Piper bit back a snort. Her voice assumed the gentle, inquiring tone that the young reserved for the old. "But Nanny, Daeghun isn't a leprechaun. He's an elf."

Nanny crinkled one eye up at her. "Aye, and the worst sorta leprechaun to come by. Bah, off with ya. And _you two_," she pointed a wrinkled finger at Amie and Bevil, who swallowed their laughter, "you as well. Shame, shame. And here I spent a goodly sum of my years trying to pair the both of ya. A kind word'd do it, I said. Get the little man to give her a flower, I said. But here the both of ya be standing, with narry a kiss between the two of ya, without a marriage band to go on." Both Amie and Bevil flushed scarlet.

"That really was a very long time ago, Nanny." Bevil rubbed the back of his head, messing his hair once again.

"Yes, Nanny. Things change and little ones grow up." Amie attempted a smile but it amounted to little more than a timid grimace. "We're just friends."

Nanny Driscol flattened her dingy apron that smelled of sweat and honey. "Bah, off with the lot of ya. Don't know why we old folk bother in the first place." She shuffled off. "I'll be having a word with that father of yours, Piper." And she sped away into the crowd, flyaway mop of hair wagging in the breeze.

Bevil and Amie laughed shakily, while Piper wrenched her back out of that uncomfortable position.

"How did we ever survive her as children?" Bevil wondered aloud.

Piper chuckled. "We all became stiff drinkers by the age of ten, I believe." She stretched those back muscles out of their knot. "As entertaining as her interrogation of Daeghun might be—can you imagine—I think the Knaves' Challenge would be safer. I wonder if Kipp is about."

Bevil, who had at last reined in his blush, narrowed his eyes. "Kipp? Not that little urchin again."

"Oh come on, Bevil. He's really useful, and none of us are _knaves_." Amie shielded her copper eyes in the sunlight, then grinned and pointed. "There he is, kicking pebbles around that tent there."

The three of them approached the boy in the patchwork tunic. His hands flashed behind his back before they reached him, and a look of stubborn indignation crossed his face.

"Look, I'm just watchin' the Fair, all right? Whatever it is, I ain't done it." He squinted up at their shadows. "Wait. Oh, it's you three. What ya want?" He sneered. Or grinned toothily at least. "Need me again? I take it you didn't read on lockpickin' or pocketpickin' like you said you would, Piper."

"Why, when I have a strapping thirteen year old to rely on, hmm?" She quirked her brows.

He gave a childish titter. "Brilliant as always. Right then." He cast a wary eye over Bevil's disapproving glance. He leaned towards Piper as if to whisper, but the words rose crisp and clear as normal. "Sorry for beanin' that big lummox on the head all those times. Didn't mean any harm by it, he's just funny when he gets angry."

Bevil flushed again. "That was you?" His voice escalated. "Every day during drills I get hit by acorns. And it was this kid—I can't believe nobody told me! Georg had me thinking it was pixies! My own commander!" Amie pulled him back by the arm to calm him.

Piper chuckled. "Well, it won't happen again. Right, Kipp?"

"Yeah, I swear it." His grin turned mischievous. "By all the pixies in the swamp."

Before Bevil could wreak havoc on the young boy's face, Piper grasped Kipp's shoulder, as if confiding in him. "You know, Kipp, even as..._tricky_ as they are, pixies can be easily tracked by a certain elven ranger." Her tone turned deadly casual. "And I'm sure that said elven ranger has tracked much worse, and could find this little pixie's vantage spot...and deliver it to Goodwife Lannon for punishment."

"For a bard, you're no fun." Piper laughed and straightened. "Besides, your father wouldn't waste his time with somethin' like that." There was uncertainty in his young voice.

Piper shrugged. "Maybe not. Keep on and you may find out though..." She allowed that little kernel to sink in, then she smiled. "So, are you with us?"

"Just as long as you tell that oaf to aim like he means it in the brawl," Kipp jerked his head at Bevil, who seemed to be clenching his jaw painfully hard. "Can't tell ya how pinched I was when we lost last year. 'Spect you and Amie worked on the whole 'weak girl' thing." He dodged Amie's elbow, which would have connected with his jaw. "Hey now! Just foolin'." He flexed his wiry fingers. "Yeah, yeah. I'll join up with ya again. Long as my name gets down on the jotter when we win, same as you lot."

"That'll do." Piper said, and shook his grimy hand.

Kipp pocketed one of the gnarly stones he'd been toeing. "You gotta talk with the mage first."

"Mage?" Piper mused. Amie tugged on Piper's elbow, twisting her towards a red and white tent bleached from the sun. "What is it, Amie?"

"Ah, my apprentice and her friends." Tarmas had ventured out from beneath his tent in a cerulean tunic and robes of deep maroon. He stuck a couple of fingers into his collar and pulled the material from where it clung to his pale skin. He grumbled. "Packs of feral children set loose to find trinkets, grown men braining one another with clubs..." He wiped his receding hairline with a cloth, and eyed Amie beadily. "Do you know they're actually granting prizes for the fattest pig? As if the creatures needed encouragement."

"Good to see you too, Tarmas." Amie folded her arms across her bodice in exasperation.

Piper was delighted. "_Tarmas_?_You're_ the Grand Overseer of the Knaves' Challenge?"

If Tarmas was ever capable of scowling, he would have; instead he mustered a withering look at her. "Didn't I ever tell you that West Harbor is delightful? The children hold banditry in the highest regard, and the adults blackmail their neighbors."

When he received no answer, he elaborated. "Your _wonderful_commander," he directed this to Bevil, "gave me a choice. And this one was infinitely better. Either this or add another witless ragamuffin to my overlong apprentice list, and one who's fond of _drooling_." He muttered the last sentence in mute horror, more to himself than anyone.

Bevil started. "You mean Jan Buckman?"

Tarmas daubed the back of his neck, frowning deeply. "Yes. The day I see that boy as a mage is the day I disintegrate my tomes and join the druid's Circle." He sighed. "I expect you're all here for the aptly-named Knaves' Challenge." He snorted. "Surrounded by muck and reek, why not encourage our children to be thieves, as well?" He adjusted the sleeves of his robes, peering at each of them in turn. "A fighter, a wizard, and a bard. Well, what are you three doing here? I don't believe any of you have the skills to compete. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Bevil muscled Kipp to stand in front of the wizard. "Don't shove, aye?"

"Isn't that the boy who stole my basilisk eyelash? And not once, but four times?"

Kipp crossed his arms, a roguish smile on his face. "That's right. My frog needed eyelashes. Then I got him a sweetheart, and she needed 'em too."

Amie giggled, but Piper poked him in the arm. "He's just kidding. He's here for our team."

The wizard waved a dismissive hand. "Don't trouble yourself on my account. I'll settle with the young artiste and his frogs later." Kipp glowered. "Before you begin, I suppose you'll want to hear the rhyme?"

Piper glanced at Bevil and Amie, but they just shrugged. "There's a rhyme this year?"

Tarmas grumbled. "You hadn't heard? Better for me if I'd kept my peace. Georg asked for a rhyme this year." He swiped his face with the cloth again. A croaky, gravely noise signaled that he was clearing his throat. "I've hidden three feathers/scattered them wide/placed White in a box and locked it inside/Blue followed termite-tracks/down where they ran/Green in the pocket of same-colored man."

Silence.

"Well, that was right hairy, wasn't it?" Kipp drawled.

Piper had to agree. She rubbed a cheek with her hand. "So...we're to look for three feathers. One in a locked chest, one in...rotted wood, and one in the pocket of a man in green dress?"

"Yes. You and half the waifs in West Harbor." He eyed Kipp and gave a ragged sigh. "I adore children, did you know that? Swamp-children particularly."

Piper led the other three away from a grumbling Tarmas, reentering the swarm of people.

"Any ideas on the riddle, Piper?" Bevil asked over her shoulder.

"Well, I remember seeing a chest with a lock next to the Council building. In the open. In broad daylight." Piper snickered. "I think it's safe to say that Tarmas makes for a poor knave."

"Hey, there was also that fop that bumped into you." Amie said. "You know, the one asking about his bright green pantaloons?" She scanned the crowd. "There! Just across from the public well, talking to that gent in brown."

"Leave it to me." Kipp strolled across the green like he lorded over it, and pretended to trip on something in front of the green-clad man.

"Alright there, son?" The green-clad man gripped Kipp underneath the armpit, and hauled him to his feet. The boy wound his left arm in its socket, as if settling it back into place. The man gave it an encouraging shake.

"Right as rain, gov. Just jarred the arm a bit, 's all." Kipp steadied himself, and then made an about face and practically skipped back to them. He lifted his right hand. He rubbed the green feather between his fore and middle finger, stroking his own nose with it. "Done and done."

Bevil grunted. "Well, if I didn't see it myself..."

"The old distract-and-feel, hmm?" Piper asked, hands on her hips. He grinned in a sly way that a fox would envy. "You hold onto that, Kipp."

* * *

Several minutes later, Kipp elbowed his way past the throng of children surrounding the formerly locked chest, pristine white feather in his fist. There was a collective 'awwww!" from the youngsters. Game over, nothing to see here. They all dispersed and began doing what all swamp-children under the age of ten do at public functions: run screaming after flocks of hens until someone scolds them. 

The blue feather proved a greater challenge. Piper examined each crate that the archery targets had occupied, the fencing, and even the mold covered crossbow barrel. Daeghun pursed his lips, but didn't comment. Bevil had taken off to scour the animal paddock, Amie the performance stage, and Kipp the surrounding tree trunks. Piper was certain she saw him climbing one.

The four met in front of Galen's tent empty-handed. That's when Piper spotted the chicken. Even years down the road, she always gave credit to the chicken.

This brown rooster appeared very interested in a battered old woodpile that rested against the fencing around the brawl arena. He crooned and pecked at it in a tenacious fashion that caught Piper's eye. After a particularly nasty peck, the rooster's eyes bulged in his head, and his tail feathers puffed out as if electrified. Then he squalled and started all over again.

"Hmm," Piper mused, and strode to the woodpile, stretching out her fingers.

"Wait! It's tra—" Kipp warned much too late.

A shock, similar to the kind one felt when their fingers brushed rough material or a sword's metallic hilt, coursed from her fingers to her chest, knocking her backwards. Bevil hollered.

"Piper, are you alright?"

She punched out a laugh. "That tickles. Oh, that _tickles_." Little prickles danced all over her skin, like a dozen hands were teasing her all at once. As soon as Kipp's nimble fingers disarmed the trap, the sensation mercifully disappeared. He tittered in that boyish way as he bent over her.

"Didn't read on much of _anythin'_ the past year, eh?" He toed the rooster away. "That cock and you are more'n a match for brains."

Piper forced herself up, hands pressing against the feathery grass. A dull heat entered her face; that _had_been careless. She reached in between the logs and jerked the blue feather from its hiding place, hefting herself from the ground. "No need to be cruel, Kipp. Besides, that was the most pathetic trap I've ever seen. Honestly..._tickling_ the victim?"

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: Tarmas has a really sick sense of humor." Bevil frowned.

"What do you mean? That was great!" Amie almost bounced on the balls of her feet. "I would've liked a go at it, too bad. Anyway, it didn't actually hurt anybody."

* * *

"You look dreadfully pleased with yourselves." Tarmas mopped his face with his cloth for the umpteenth time. An expression of unadulterated yet hopeful irritation touched his features. "You haven't finished it already, have you?" 

Piper spread the feathers like playing cards in her hands: white, green, and blue. "You didn't hide those very well, Tarmas. And a_tickling_ trap?"

Tarmas flicked an imaginary fleck from his shoulder. "I make no apologies. Hmph. A trap only functions as well as its rogue, and as I'm not a rogue, what did you expect? My enthusiasm for this extended about as far as dry land in a swamp can. Thank the gods, I can go someplace dry." His eyes became beady once again as he snatched the feathers from Piper's grasp. "I'd kiss all of you, even you," he waved the feathers in Kipp's direction, "but no one respects an affectionate wizard." He entered his tent saying, "Best I keep quiet now, lest anyone think me sociable."

Piper looked at the others; their faces reflected her own excitement. She placed a hand on Kipp's shoulder, and began steering him through the Fairway. Amie and Bevil chattered enthusiastically behind them.

"Where we goin'?"

Piper grinned. "Kipp, for all that, I think it's time you have your first mead."


	4. Chapter 4: Incantations

_**A/N**__: I've had this chapter for a while, but just recently got inspired to finish the last page or so. One more chapter after this, and the prologue will be finished. I promise the suffering of tight chronology will end soon. :D Again, my writing style (or is it mood?) keeps changing, so bear with me._

**Incantations**

Frustration never felt so amusing. Or perhaps it was the other way around. What did it matter though, really? Piper was no closer to a foaming tankard of mead than Pitney Lannon, whom had earned one of Lazlo's special 'stoppages'.

"Fill 'er up, Lazlo." Pitney swayed on his feet. His mug-less hand groped for a resting place against the kegs.

"You're drunk, Pitney. No more for you. And _don't_ go wandering off again, or Daeghun may use you to try out that new-fangled bow of his." The huff under his breath suggested that he seriously doubted this, but had run out of better ammunition.

"Wait, you're barring all of us from mead?" Piper said, incredulous. "You don't seem to understand, Lazlo. You have mead. I have cinnamon sticks. _Cinnamon sticks_, Lazlo. You know Galen only brings them once a year. I was just beginning to feel withdrawal."

Lazlo shook his head, a bull in every sense of the word. "You don't seem to understand either, Owens." He never called anyone under forty by their first name. "I told you. Not you lot. Got the Fern girl with you. I haven't forgotten what happened last year, young lady, even if you have!"

The color flared in Amie's cheeks and she retreated a few cautionary steps. "Uhm...maybe we'd better go..."

Lazlo wagged his ruddy finger so hard, Piper was surprised that it managed not to break off his hand. "Aye, that business on the roof, with the swinging hips and that vulgar song!" His already red face deepened a few shades, almost matching his claret tunic. "Not this year, young lady! On your way now, all of you!" He waved his hands as if shooing a troublesome flock of hens.

"How 'bout shum more mead, Lazlo?" Pitney hammered out, obviously hoping to catch the busy man off guard.

"_Dammit_, Pitney, there's a river just over there if you'd care to fill up!"

Piper opened her mouth. No words came, just a feeble crackling noise. Lazlo really was being unreasonable. After all, Amie's little 'show' hadn't even occurred on _his_ roof. The only reason he'd witnessed the scene at all was because at the time, Pitney had been attempting to whisk away one of Lazlo's half-empty kegs (by way of rolling it across the grass) into the night. Lazlo had pursued him and the two almost came to blows, when Amie had...well..._interrupted_ their encounter.

Still, that was a year ago. But the obstinacy of a Harborman, especially_ this_ Harborman, could not be trifled with. If Piper would carry any memory of West Harbor down the Sword Coast, it was this: the agrarian mind held fast to an idea and it would be damned to let go easily, come hell or high water. And with the village having experienced both in the past, that was saying something.

"Lazlo, you—you're denying a boy his _due_." She pleaded in mock-earnest, yet the irritated edge to her voice was real. "He single-handedly solved the Knaves' Challenge." She ruffled Kipp's hair to emphasize the point. He puffed out his chest with a wry grin. "At least give the _boy_ a mug."

But Lazlo could not be moved. "Nope, now go on, all of you. Get." He clanked two mugs together until the racket drove them away.

Kipp ran an appraising eye from Amie's blonde head all the way down to the soles of her boots, as if seeing her for the first time. Piper found the idea of a boy eleven years her junior fixing _anyone_ with _that_ kind of look humorous.

Then again, 'disturbing' could also fit the bill. The disdainful shift of Amie's hands from her sides to her hips seemed to agree. Her narrowed eyes furthered the thought in Piper's mind that, yes, it probably was better for a boy of Kipp's age and temperament to still view girls as 'contagious'.

"Swaying hips, eh?" Kipp pondered aloud.

Bevil shook in a generous belly-laugh. "She's blushing, look at her cheeks go red!" He poked one of them.

Amie batted his hand away and rounded on them both, eyes darting from one to the other. "You two told me you'd made that up..." She mumbled under her breath.

"Well, to be honest," Piper traded a smarmy grin with Bevil, "the both of us were pretty soaked ourselves, so...we thought we _were_ making it up."

Bevil rubbed his shadowed chin. "I always wondered why we made it so detailed. I mean, Piper, you can come up with some good ones but_ that_..." He chuckled.

"No details, please." Amie cupped her face in her hands.

"Ahh, but it made for such a _fine_ story..." Piper crooned. "Imagine, Bevil and I, stumbling around on the green with the Mulligan twins, calling out for you. And then, lo and behold, we hear you start to belt out the chorus of 'The Master and the Milkmaid' from the loft of the Starling barn."

Amie looked thunderstruck. But amid their laughter, and a few choice snickers from Kipp, she gave some quaky laughs of her own. "Well, I...I didn't even think I _knew_ any bawdy songs."

Piper coaxed a few ragged breaths into her throat. "You don't...what, don't you remember?" Amie stared. "Oh, come now. The miniature book I found in Tarmas' study? We read over it for a laugh in Bev's room, all three of us, shortly before the Fair started last year, remember?"

It was like watching water come to a boil. Amie nodded slowly, then gasped. "Oh yeah! _The Seedy Minstrel_. I remember now. I wonder if Tarmas even misses that."

"Riiiight. Well, as great as all the talk of sousin' and such is, a boy hasta eat, and I don't see the lot of you forkin' over any grub." Piper automatically stuck her fingers in one of her pockets for a few coppers, but Kipp waved her off. "Nah, I don't need charity none. I can nick it myself. Gotta keep the practice up, else I go hungry. Then it's my own fault, see? Means I'm gettin' sloppy."

He raised a hand as he loped away, a hand that Piper thought seemed overlarge for his boyish frame. It reminded her of Bevil in his youth, how he had become awkward and shy with his disproportioned, not-quite-a-man's body. How eventually he'd 'grown into himself', as Retta put it.

Shorter than both Amie and Bevil, Piper wondered bemusedly if this 'growth' had long since passed her by.

* * *

Piper huffed back from the house with her forgotten mandolin in hand just as Retta pressed a quick kiss on Bevil's cheek, wiping away the almost nonexistent smudge her lips made and fussing over the state of his hair, attire, etc. 

"Really, son. A good combing is all I ask for. You're in public after all." She chided.

Bevil became sheepish. "Come on now, Mother. I doubt the Mossfelds will hesitate at clubbing me just because my hair isn't perfect."

Retta placed her forefinger knuckle against her mouth to hide the smile there.

Once Piper had finally regained control of her lungs, she lifted the mandolin. "On the windowsill as usual, Retta."

"Honestly, Piper, if your head wasn't attached to your body, I think you would forget that too." Retta's shrewd, well-aged face softened. She patted her white hair. "And you're not even a mother yet."

"Okay, the props are set." Wherever Amie had materialized from, it must have been a humid, stifling place; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. Her hair stood out from its ponytail at frazzled angles. She was the perfect image of stage fright. Her voice practically shook from it. "Orlen helped move that old barrel over and into the ring."

"It's a rotten old thing. No one will miss it." Retta put the back of her fingers to Amie's forehead. "My dear, I do believe you have the worst case of jitters I've ever seen. And the heat in your cheeks! Your frost magic will be most welcome, I'm sure."

Amie smiled unsteadily. "Serves me right for wanting a big audience."

"Well, don't forget about _me_." Piper added a dramatic flare to her voice. "I'm just the background attraction, alas. But _still_ an _important_ one."

"Right. If my magic fails, you can dazzle them with a symphony or something."

Piper turned from Amie to face the dozen or so children. The 'audience'. A few of the boys in front were chanting 'Blow up the barrel! Blow up the barrel!'

"Amie, I somehow doubt they'd be at all impressed."

* * *

Amie and Piper had agreed. All children held fascination for three things: animals (whether ferocious or otherwise), objects three times as big as they were, and dramatic explosions. Of course, not only children would be watching the Tourney of Talent. But West Harbor adults often viewed the Tourney little better than the Knaves' Challenge; an impractical, trivial event. As a result, the votes for the Tourney were cast by small, dirt-stained hands and gleeful little voices. 

These little voices now whooped and cheered as a wolf sprung from Amie's palm. One boy even ran up and tapped the animal on one paw, before fleeing back to his place in the group.

Piper laughed as she strained the mandolin into halting, predatory notes. The wolf stalked menacingly back and forth, uttering a few growls at the crowd, all according to Amie's will. With a wave of her hand, the beast faded.

Another incantation stretched and elongated her limbs, until she stood as tall as a few of the shortest nearby trees. Her ponytail matched in width and length to a grown man's thigh. Piper's music rose to lofty heights as Amie towered over the little ones. They gasped in saucer-eyed wonder up at her. She made a single, long stride over to Bevil, much to his displeasure, and lifted him effortlessly a few feet from the ground.

His siblings, all six of them, hooted and giggled openly.

"Met your match, eh Bev?" Todde Starling, fifteen and packed with devious mischief, called out in a broken tenor. His group of lanky friends snickered until Retta cuffed his head with her hand.

Amie eased a grumbling Bevil onto his feet. He would be most upset with them afterwards; involving him in the act had not been part of the plan.

As soon as Amie had hastened the reversal of the enlargement spell, Piper rested the mandolin against one of the fence posts, then placed Georg's hand-carved flute to her lips and waited. Amie focused on the rotted old barrel. She turned her head, smiling, and quieted the excited children with a finger to her mouth. She pronounced the strange words, clear as crystal, until a tiny swarm of frost enveloped her hand. With a flick of the wrist, the frost hurtled itself at the barrel.

It promptly imploded, while a showering of frost rocketed outwards into the sky.

Piper's fingers made fluid trills on the instrument as a light wave of the crystals cascaded through the humid air and landed on the children's flushed cheeks. She finished the cheery melody just as the last puff of frost settled.

Their cheering and clapping rose to a warbling din as Piper bowed with Amie, both beaming to their ears.

A few of the city folk had been drawn by the music and general racket. They applauded politely but appeared otherwise unimpressed. Piper could hardly blame them. Large cities like Neverwinter always had the most lavish displays of entertainment. She'd read of whole day festivals involving everything from fire-eaters to illusionists. A few cantrips must pale in comparison.

Nevertheless, a breathless Retta handed out a torn sheaf of parchment—one of Tarmas' scraps no doubt—and a ragged quill to the children. They passed it around, each taking their turns to make large scribbles on it.

After tucking Georg's flute away and strapping her mandolin tightly to her hip, Piper stood chewing on her thumbnail, waiting. A loss was possible, now that she considered it. The Mulligan twins had performed a semi-successful knife-throwing exchange to one another...blindfolded.

"Why'd you have to go and _lift_ me? And in front of everyone too!" Bevil said in an irate whisper.

Amie and Piper shushed him in unison. Bevil muttered something about lashing Todde to the back of Galen's merchant wagon and watching him bounce out of West Harbor.

Retta collected the parchment when the children were done, squinting to read their most likely jumbled handwriting. The smile she wore grew wider. She cleared her throat.

"It's a sure thing. Eleven to one for Amie and Piper!" She waved the paper in their direction.

Bevil forgot to be sour after that. He even tolerated Piper and Amie gallivanting around him like a maypole.

Afterward, when the congratulations subsided, Retta took Amie and Piper aside. She held out her hand to reveal three spell scrolls, rolled with care and tied with thin gold ribbons.

"A little something from Tarmas. To sweeten the win for you girls." Retta smiled.

Amie took them with a resigned expression. "I'm sure these won't come for free. In fact, I'm almost certain that extra study sessions lie in wait for me. As _payment_." She laughed softly, joining Bevil by the nearby fence post.

Piper, however, stayed behind, leaning forward a little. She was curious. "So...who was the lone wolf who _didn't_ vote for us?"

A surprised chuckle escaped Retta. "Jan was the last to vote. There was a little 'v' and 'd' on the parchment." Vaughn and Devika were the Mulligan twins. "But don't you be worrying about that. He assured me that 'A' and 'P' were his original meaning." At Piper's raised eyebrows, Retta grinned. "The poor boy has trouble getting his brain and hand to agree on letters. He's always seeing or writing them upside down and backward." She winked.


	5. Chapter 5: The Goodbye Tour

_**A/N**__: To prove my dork status, I actually read up on how to give someone a proper K.O. And some of the hilarious sites I found... -snerk-_

_Anyway, this is still rated Teen, but Wyl's mouth has taken it up a slight notch. :) And so, the prologue ends..._

**The Goodbye Tour**

The disillusioned squeals of Junior, Lewy Jons' hopeful for the Heftiest Hog competition, pierced the cheery babble of Fair-goers.

Piper, Amie, and Bevil moved toward the Brawl-ring, away from all the noise, pointedly ignoring Lewy's curses and empty threats in their direction.

"'Just Tarmas' 'prentice', he said. 'Barely a mageling', he said. Yeah, well, let's see how your piglet fares now!" Amie tossed the latter over her shoulder.

Bevil shook his head, and Piper half expected him to lecture on the pitfalls of spite, when a crude voice interrupted.

"Look what we have here. The two she-orphans and the brainless momma's boy." Wyl Mossfeld paused in the picking of his teeth to sneer at them from atop the fence. His mold colored eyes narrowed. "Heh. The last I can take. But if you ask me...anyone who hasta sit just to take a piss has no business in the Brawl."

"Why you—!" Bevil fumbled over his words, seemingly furious with himself that he could think of nothing in his friends' defenses. Amie let out a heated laugh.

"Oh stow it, Mossfeld. You're not smart enough to be funny. Not even to your own kin."

It was true. Webb appeared uncomfortable, throwing apologetic glances Piper's way: his always silent opposition to his brother. Ward was stony-faced and...well, come to think of it, Piper had never seen _any_ emotion cross the man's features, other than gruff confusion. He gripped his club in one hand, scratching his dark mohawk listlessly with the other.

"There goes the ratty little blood-fly." The eldest Mossfeld snarled. Piper could almost admire the stubborn cover for the real reason behind his fury. The ape had a sweet tooth for Amie as wide as the Mere and displayed it in the most classic way possible: by making her life a living hell. "Mouthy little blood-fly. Sucking up to and off of everyone within a mile perimeter. Suck suck suck." He made a slurping noise with his mouth, and then licked his lips. Amie pretended to retch into her hand.

Piper yawned, plucking an imaginary blade of grass from her hair. She put a fair amount of casual disinterest into her voice. "You know, Mossfeld, I was thinking the other night over something that puzzled me to no end. Wyl, Ward, and Webb. Why the 'w', hmm? Why would a woman be so fascinated with one letter?" She widened her eyes and lifted a finger, as if the most brilliant thought had struck her. "Then it came to me. Your mother had the foresight to realize you'd all turn into a bunch of _wankers_."

Amie and Bevil snorted. Piper grinned, noticing that despite the insult, Webb masked a laugh not so quietly behind his hand. Ward didn't react, but whether this was out of wordless rage or confusion, she couldn't be sure.

Wyl, on the other hand, hurtled down from the fence and launched into the most verbally graphic tirade West Harbor had heard in a long while...or at least in the past few days. And it reached the ears of Brother Merring.

The baritone that had drifted like a balm through Piper's window that morning now bellowed in a priest's reprimand. He plunked his oaken staff in the soft ground between Wyl's feet.

"That's enough, Wyl Mossfeld! Profanities are distasteful throughout the year, but the _audacity_ to use them during Fair-time, and with children about no less...!"

"Oh, I don't mind none." Kipp drawled from the nearby fence, directly stuffing his mouth with ginger bread.

Wyl bit his lip under the priest's fierce blue gaze. "But, your Priesthood! Owens, she—she was insulting my moth—"

Merring wrenched his staff from the earth only to plunge it back in again, but with even more force. "_Enough_! You have some gall, Mossfeld, to think I won't step in after a display like that when I'm but a stone's throw away!" He thrust a tanned finger at the spot where he had formerly stood.

After a moment, Piper cleared her throat. Brother Merring tensed his head towards her, to which she offered him an easy smile. His face cleared instantly and he nodded. He smoothed down those sunrise-hued robes of his, taking deep breaths and apologizing to any gawkers in the vicinity for his outburst.

"When all of you are done here, Piper, Bevil, Amie...I'd like a word." His usual serene patience crept back into his voice and bearing, almost as if the previous conversation had never occurred.

"Of course, Brother Merring." Piper said quietly.

When he had gone, Webb sighed and leaned forward in Wyl's direction. "That was to be an outright lie, you know. She was insulting _us_, not our mother."

Wyl growled, shoving his younger brother into the Brawl fencing. "Go stick your pecker in a vice." He stomped off. Ward blinked for a few moments, then followed his fuming sibling into the crowd. Piper wondered, had she any blade to speak of, if she could cut the leash that extended between them.

Amie was giddy as a cloudless morning.

"Nice. Have you been stewing that one or did it just come off the top of your head?"

Piper smiled coyly. "An illusionist never reveals her secrets. Why should bards carry on any different?" Bevil laughed, relieved, and he and Amie approached Brother Merring. Piper made to follow them, when a hand rested on her shoulder.

She was met with a very guilty Webb Mossfeld. The expression had become his daily garb as of late.

"Hey, Piper..." He said softly. She was probably supposed to respond with something like 'yes?' or 'may I help you?', but she felt her face dip in a harsh frown. "Look, Piper, I'm—"

"Sorry. Yeah. I know." She interrupted, voice low. "'Poor, sorry Webb'. And that's all people will think of you if you keep turning the other cheek to your brothers like that. Gods, man, if you can't take a firm footing against your own blood, how do you expect to make a successful militiaman?"

Piper faltered. Where had that come from? That was almost...she nearly sounded like...Daeghun? An agitated, overly wordy Daeghun. And just as critical. She touched her open mouth with her fingertips in alarm.

"I...well, now it's _my_ turn to be sorry."

He raked a hand through his sandy hair. "Nah. You're right. Georg's said as much. If not in words, then in brutal drills that break my back." He grinned. "Or maybe just a knuckle or two."

She chuckled, then caught Amie and Bevil's mirthful eyes. "Hmm. Well. I'd best be going. You know. Over there." She pointed, and followed her own finger, barely giving him time to manage a soft 'see ya later'.

Only the most merciful of friends could have kept quiet after that. Amie and Bevil didn't utter a word.

Brother Merring was knelt over young Aiden Burns, tending a nasty welt over his left eye. "Going for vital areas like thugs." The priest mumbled. "Alright, lad. Stand up slowly and get a cool drink...that's it."

"Sorry about that, Brother Merring." Piper said automatically. It was amazing how those few words had become such a habit over the years. The priest ran his calloused fingers over the wood of his staff, and shook his head.

"The Fair is a time for celebration, not in-fighting between the townsfolk." He grimaced. "You should have ignored their presence and headed straight for me."

"That's hard to do when they come looking for you." Bevil grumbled.

Piper was reminded of younger days, where an afternoon free of Wyl dangling her head-first over the public well was one to cherish. His obnoxious ability to seek out those who did not wish to be bothered had become legendary by his tenth birthday.

"And when one of them has an _eye_ for you, of all things, it's even harder." Amie puckered her lips like she had just tasted Nanny Driscol's lemon tart.

Merring chortled a little beneath his beard. "I understand. But goading him surely doesn't alleviate matters any." He eyed Piper.

She grinned. "Now now. The Fair is a time for celebration, not hand-wringing over Wyl Mossfeld's hurt pride."

"Just take care in the future, that's all I ask—" A pained outcry sounded from over the fence. Brother Merring flared into movement again, brandishing an enormous old cowbell that had lain hidden somewhere in his robes. Piper shut her eyes against the harsh clangs. "Another blow to the groin like that, Haggert, and your team will be disqualified!"

A baleful 'yes, sir' followed.

Piper barely caught a glimpse of the bell as it was deftly tucked away once again.

"Now," Brother Merring looked at them each in turn with a frustrated smile, "I presume you three would like to show how it's done?"

* * *

Piper circled within the fence, the spit of wood held low in her hand. She blew the ginger hairs from her eyes. 

_Thrum_._Thrum_._Thrum_.

Hearts made for very distracting things.

She was echoing Bevil's footfalls, behind and slightly to the right of him.

"Dawww, the little blood-fly had her sucker flicked off." Wyl crooned, throwing a leer to where Amie leaned on the fence, freshly healed and resting her chin in her hands. She rolled her eyes. The surrounding crowd did much the same.

"Yeah, well, maybe if _darling_ Ward didn't follow you so closely, he could have pulled _his_ head out of _your_ backside long enough to dodge Bevil's club." She twiddled her fingers at Ward across the Brawl-ring. He actually scowled. Piper couldn't believe her eyes.

Murmurs of laughter spread throughout the crowd. Someone, half-drunk by the sound of it, bellowed, "Aye, a right tail-kissin' cocker spaniel he is, haha!"

"I swear, Pitney, if you don't shut your yap, I'm ramming a _cork_ down your throat!" The irate voice unmistakably belonged to Lazlo.

Piper laughed out loud, along with Bevil and a few others.

Wyl, however, bristled. "That's it, blood-fly. Just for that, you can watch me plow your friends into the swamp."

He charged then, barreling towards Bevil and Piper like a bull in rage, with Webb flanking him. She stayed out of it for the most part as Bevil and the Mossfelds traded blows, aiming a few of her own at the backs of kneecaps and in ribs. Just small, accessory attacks.

The problem came when Webb finally targeted Piper with a few swipes to her head, forcing her away from Bevil. She blocked him as much as possible. But she was never one for displays of awesome strength, and as a militiaman he obviously had the advantage. Before she realized what he had done, her back hit the fence and her club was deflected from her grasp. It thudded in the grass.

Piper dug her hands into the grain of the fence. With a growl, she pushed downwards, heaving her lower body upward and giving Webb a solid double-foot kick to the gut. As she'd hoped, he backpedaled from the force. It allowed her just enough time to twist her arm around the fence post for the fallen club. She whirled it around, and saw his own speeding towards her.

The two cudgels cracked against one another. She pressed forward, and so did he, their feet gouging shallow furrows into the earth. They cocked their arms back in identical movements, prepared to swing.

Nothing happened. Piper blinked, glaring up at him. Webb frowned down at her. Neither made their move.

"Piper, look out!"

Out of instinct, she ducked at the sound of Amie's voice. Not quite fast enough. Something blitzed her right below the cheekbone, _hard_. She suddenly felt the coarse needles of grass beneath her face and hands.

_What the hell?_

The shouts of the crowd were all but drowned out by the ringing in her ears. The entire right side of her face burned. Piper lifted her head; Webb lay a few feet away, flat on his back, eyes closed. Wyl was roaring in laughter somewhere close by, taunting Bevil.

"You got Webb good, Starling. But now let's see how you do standing on your own, eh?"

Piper grimaced. Trust Wyl not to knock someone out properly.

"Son of a _bitch_." She pushed herself off the ground, gripping her right cheek, club in her left hand. Wyl was a little busy jabbing Bevil in the sides and hurling insults to notice her stumble towards him from behind. She didn't hesitate to force the blunt head of the weapon into the small of his back. He yowled, arching into the strike, and Bevil took the opportunity to plant his fist in a sharp uppercut to the Mossfeld's jaw.

Wyl crumpled. He was unconscious before his black hair touched the ground.

* * *

The only music that filled the air was that of every man, woman, and child bringing their hands together for the clap-tune's finale. 

"_...and the bottle nary left my side, _  
_O flowing paradise gold! _  
_My lips ne'er parted (trust me I tried!) _  
_That temptress wile of old!"_

"And now," Piper shouted over the applause, adjusting the forest-green cloak about her shoulders, "I think it's high time I bow out and allow the _paid_ minstrels to have their turn." Everyone cheered. Her eyes rested on the performers that Georg had hired; the city livery of the fiddler and his flutist companion was already rumpled from the overenthusiastic jostling of the locals.

Piper smiled. The night was getting on, and they certainly deserved to earn their pay. She weaved her way down the wooden stage, unable to avoid the rough back-thumping some of the crowd gave her.

"Hey now!" Georg pulled her into a one-arm hug, crunching her shoulders together painfully. "Just wanted to tell ya how proud I am!"

She cocked an eyebrow. "A little tipsy are we?"

"Of course!" He bellowed. "And you should be too, lass. By the way, just to keep things simple, the trophy you four won will sit in the Council foyer. And don't worry." He raised one finger to his nose. "I had Tarmas magick it into place. The Mossfelds won't get their hands on it, even if they had a collective mind to." He barked a laugh, and then gradually became somber. "You know, your mother'd be proud of ya, lass."

She didn't know what to say. "Thanks, Georg."

He nodded. "Oh, and by the way, when are you and Amie going on that sojourn of yours?"

"The 19th..." She said, and then to clarify, just in case he'd drank a few more than was obvious, "...of Eleint. This month, ten days time."

"Well, just you remind me before you head off. I have a little something to give the both of ya." He beamed, and proceeded to amble away, belting out a somewhat butchered version of the clap-tune she'd just finished.

The night was one of the merriest Piper could remember. As the light of day waned, apple-bobbing contests and animal judging melded into magical displays (by a disinterested Tarmas), fire throwing, and dances. Once darkness cloaked the Mere fully, Tarmas recited an incantation, causing all the torches and lanterns in West Harbor to flare into life.

Volo, Amie's furry little bat, flew down from the shadowed trees to perch on her shoulder, squeaking happily at all the excitement. Bevil's wariness of the 'flying rat' still hadn't improved despite _years_ of the animal's company.

Piper was thankful for the warmth of her harvest cloak. She, Bevil, Amie, and even Kipp all wore one as a mark of their victory. They had been woven from pure spider silk, Georg said, courtesy of the recent giant spider infestation that the militia had tackled not long ago. On the underbelly was a lining of wool, for warmth, and all of it was soaked in linseed oil, for travel in rainy weather. The green dye...well, that had been applied for aesthetic appeal only. They were beautiful cloaks.

And it drew attention away from the enormous purple bruise that now bloomed just below her cheekbone.

Regardless, she was offered many dances with both friends and visitors, and was all but falling down from all the spinning. Webb even asked her, much to Wyl's annoyance, for a dance to one of the slower melodies. She obliged, and they spent the duration of the song laughing at each other's bumps and bruises. The knot from Bevil's club stood out proudly on his temple.

There was dish after dish of homemade foods waiting afterwards, and drinking besides. With reluctance, Lazlo allowed Piper and the others to have their overdue mead, on the principle that denying the victors a mug or two just wasn't good for business.

Kipp enjoyed his first mead entirely too much for Goodwife Lannon's tastes.

Piper suppressed a satisfied hiccup, Amie and Bevil giggling beside her over something Webb had said. She grinned.

_Gods. I'm actually going to miss this place._

**Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;**

**And give us not to think so far away**

**As the uncertain harvest; keep us here**

**All simply in the springing of the year.**

**- Robert Frost**


End file.
